


but lover you're the one to blame

by Goumaden



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Biting, Dubious Consent, M/M, Melodrama, Near death experiences!, Succubus!Akira, about 18 AUs removed from canon, blood loss!, ill thought out duel requests!, vampire!goro, wrote this one in a blind haze of impure and non-god-fearing thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28115223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goumaden/pseuds/Goumaden
Summary: "I don't leave my meals half finished," says Goro with the frigid, steely sort of resolution Akira's only ever heard in action movies. "I'm going to rend your flesh to shreds. Then, once I've slaughtered you and drunk every last drop of your blood, I'll mount your desiccated husk over the mantel to display to my houseguests.""Awfully forward for the first date," says Akira, and cracks open a second sports drink.Vampire AU PWP—does exactly what it says on the tin. Merry fucking Christmas
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 24
Kudos: 193





	but lover you're the one to blame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bangandawhimper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangandawhimper/gifts).



> This is a direct sequel to [got a bad desire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27551341) by bangandawhimper, because cringe is dead and sometimes you need to get the horny vampire sex pollen out of your system. Read that one first or I'll beat you senseless.

The cute vampire calls him back three weeks later and leaves a voicemail.

It's a terse, brief, "I'm going to _fucking_ kill you," snarled through what must be an absolutely stupid amount of razor-sharp teeth. Then there's a menacing click, a low beep, and the call ends.

The entire thing is so goddamn funny that Akira doesn't even know where to start.

Maybe it's the fact that all vampires act like society peaked in the 1600s and believe that the ideal method of communication is a sinister calligraphic directive on a piece of dirty old parchment. No, wait—the fact that parchment is no longer a viable option in the modern era and off-brand Dracula chose to instead substitute an honest-to-god landline phone call with a _handset_ —in the _year 2017_ —is even funnier.

Then again, he also can't discount the inherent humor of tender prince Nosferatu being so zonked out by his single sad little orgasm that it took him the better part of a _month_ to recover and leave Akira a threatening message in the first place.

But when Akira really, genuinely turns it over in his mind, it's funny because this revenge-hinged idiot of a vampire thinks he actually stands a chance of _winning_.

So of course he calls him back immediately.

And fuck, the horny little bastard must have been waiting right next to his dinosaur relic of a landline phone, because he picks up with preternatural speed on the very first ring.

"Hi honey," Akira coos. He's in an apartment that doesn't belong to him, rummaging through his latest victim's refrigerator. Being dead, said victim isn't going to need any of his canned coffee or bottled tea or— _oh, jackpot_ —sports drinks anytime soon. Akira sandwiches his cell phone between his shoulder and his ear, pops the cap on a glowstick-orange sugary electrolyte concoction, and takes an obnoxiously long swig. He can't survive off of it—he isn't built for most foods, really—but at this point he's just trying to get as much blood circulating through his body as possible before he starts hemorrhaging it out of his carotid artery for the sake of Lestat Junior's cozy little predator complex.

"I loathe you," says the voice through the phone speaker. "I am going to twist your limbs until your bones shatter into splinters. I'll rip you into pieces so goddamn small that I could push your remains through a cheese grater. I'll paint your back with swirls of holy water and laugh as your skin blisters and curdles. I'll—"

As he keeps spewing vitriol across the line, Akira suddenly realizes that he can't remember the vampire's name. What can he say? He's kept to his typical disgusting slutty schedule for the past three weeks, and he makes it his personal goal to never get attached. It's standard procedure when you fuck your sexual partners to death for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, really.

But this vampire—this stupid, gorgeous, oversized mosquito of a man, with his garnet eyes and blood smeared across his teeth like lipstick—laying on the ground beneath Akira, groaning out " _Go…ro…_ " with the last shard of his broken spirit—

_Oh, that was his name! Goro._

" _Goro_ ," says Akira affectionately, and he lets a bit of mesmerism creep into his voice, a minor ensorcellment intended to remind Goro of what _really_ matters. Nothing major—just a mental nudge in the right direction by tossing some twigs into the banked fires of his latent sexual arousal. A gentle tap down the path that ends in Goro getting so fucking horny that he loses all capacity for rational thought and rails Akira up against the nearest hard surface.

Now _that's_ a delicious thought. Akira finishes his godawful neon drink and drizzles on a few more hypnotic undertones, voice curling low and smooth and downright sultry across the phone line. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Your whorish seduction tactics won't work twice," Goro says, teeth grinding, and Akira can _hear_ the irritated note of vexation in his voice.

He lets out a pleased little purr in response. "Then why are you calling, _Goro_?"

"I don't leave my meals half finished," says Goro with the frigid, steely sort of resolution Akira's only ever heard in action movies. "I'm going to rend your flesh to shreds. Then, once I've slaughtered you and drunk every last drop of your blood, I'll mount your desiccated husk over the mantel to display to my houseguests."

"Awfully forward for the first date," says Akira, and cracks open a second sports drink. He takes a sip, then leans in closer to the phone speaker, softens his tone to a coquettish murmur, and _compels_. "Wouldn't you rather just come over to my place?"

"Yes," breathes Goro reverently. " _Anything._ I'll—"

There's the unmistakable sound of a self-administered slap to the face. Goro pauses for a moment too long before clearing his throat and saying, "Absolutely not. Did you really think something so trivial as _mesmerism_ would be capable of breaking my will?"

"Well. Yes, actually," says Akira, but before he can finish Goro interrupts him again. 

"Midnight. The abandoned warehouse near the south side of the wharf. Bring two weapons—we'll be dueling to the death."

Goro hangs up the phone with a sharp _click_. Akira sits in silence, marveling at the audacity of it all.

It's got to be the stupidest fucking thing he's ever heard.

So of course he goes. How could he not?

———

Immediately upon arrival, Akira regrets it. It's painfully obvious why the warehouse has been abandoned—it's a dirty, rusty, ramshackle abomination of corrugated sheet metal and rotting wood. The entire building darkly oozes the sick promise of tetanus and splinters.

Tetanus? That's fine. Akira can sweat it out. Thanks to his inhuman biology, he's gotten worse infections out of his system before. But _splinters_? Ugh, gross. No thanks. He has half a mind to just turn around and leave, refusing all negotiations until Goro offers up somewhere more civilized for their little fuckfest.

Which may be less of a fuckfest than he had initially imagined, because—holy _shit_ —Goro, walking through the disease-riddled door, has actually shown up to the warehouse with a sword and a pistol. He is _genuinely_ going to attempt to kill him.

"You're serious," says Akira in disbelief, one hand reaching towards the coat pocket where he keeps his daggers.

"You look like a slutty librarian," says Goro with a sneer. He's a bit too loud, either from bravado or nerves, and his voice echoes in the empty space. He strides directly up to Akira, pulling on a pair of well-worn leather dueling gloves as he approaches. "Why don't you show me your _true_ form instead?"

"There's nothing wrong with turtlenecks, darling," Akira croons as he reaches up to cup Goro's cheek in his hand, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles against Goro's cold skin.

It's a cheap shot—if he can get his fingers in Goro's mouth and draw his own blood against Goro's fangs, it'll be more than enough to leave him intoxicated and thoroughly susceptible to suggestion.

So Akira leans in closer, drags the pad of his thumb against Goro's lower lip, and murmurs, "If you want _my_ clothes off, you'll have to take yours off first."

Goro slaps his hand away. That's fair. But then steps back and levels his pistol at Akira's heart, which is absolutely _not_ fair, and hisses, "I expected more of a challenge than this. Take out your fucking weapons so l can end your miserable existence."

"I have a better idea," says Akira. He steps back as well, eyes glowing a lurid, sickly red. His tone shifts to something softer, exquisitely melodious, a near-irresistible compulsion. " _Why don't you put the gun down, Goro?_ "

"I don't think so," Goro says calmly, voice ringing in the silence, and then he shoots.

The only thing that saves Akira from becoming a tetanus-tainted wall splatter are his unearthly reflexes—he's able to duck and roll out of the way just as the bullet grazes the top of his shoulder, right where his heart was a split-second earlier. He comes out of the tumble and lands on his feet with an acrobat's grace, then barely leaps out of the way as Akechi fires again, a third time, a fourth.

"Draw your weapons," Goro repeats forcefully. "This is a goddamn _duel,_ not open season at the shooting range." He trains the pistol at Akira's head again, and Akira petulantly pulls his daggers from his pockets.

"Good," Goro loudly growls as he tosses his gun aside and unsheathes his sword. "It's _far_ more personal like this. I'm going to enjoy mutilating you."

Then he's a howling, furious hurricane bearing down on Akira, and holy shit, holy shit, holy _shit_ , the penny dreadful pushover actually knows what he's doing. His form is impeccable. His vampiric speed and raw strength don't supplant his techniques—they _supplement_ them, which means he's probably been outright _trained_ in this, has been fighting with unerring force and precision long before he was turned.

Akira's ancient, practically timeless. He's been alive for far longer than he's willing to admit in casual conversation and has the survival skills and the ego to go with it. But this?

This moronic vampire _could_ actually kill him, he thinks mutely as he blocks what must be Goro's fifteen-hundredth death blow with his daggers. Each and every muscle in his body is screaming, and he's barely able to twist Goro's blade away from his neck and stab for his abdomen in retaliation. Goro parries elegantly, not even breathing hard—no, scratch that, not even breathing _at all_ , _fuuuuuuck_ vampires—and then Akira's stance wobbles, his inhuman stamina finally gives out, and Goro kicks his legs out from under him.

He hits the floor like a sack of wet shit. Two thousand years old, and this is how he fucking dies. No bang, no whimper—just a deranged, homicidal vampire and his humongous pile of insecurities over the fact that Akira made him nut once. Great. Goro kneels down to straddle him, which would be fantastic under literally any other circumstance, but _ugh_ , there's splinters everywhere, and also his extremely pathetic demise is imminent.

A razor-sharp leaden weight settles over his throat. Goro's sword. He's probably going to behead him, then. Which is a pretty logically sound plan—there's not a lot of entities out there, supernatural or otherwise, that can survive the separation of the spinal cord from the brain stem.

Akira swallows and closes his eyes.

The whole situation fucking _sucks_.

Not in the fun, flirtatious way that ends with a vampire's teeth sunk deep in his succulent neck in a dark alleyway, but in the traditional way—the dreadful, awful, hopeless way. From the start, nothing about this encounter has made sense.

To begin with: why aren't his compulsions working? He's used them before on Goro without any issues—hell, Goro was apparently such a delightfully tractable tramp that they even worked _over the phone_. Yet when Akira lovingly sweet-talked him into dropping his gun earlier, Goro hadn't complied. In fact, he'd flat out ignored him.

Even if Goro had gone deaf in some sort of freak accident, that still fails to explain why Akira's blood isn't having any kind of a noticeable effect on him. Every fluid Akira's body produces is a disgusting pheromone laced aphrodisiac. But Goro grazed his shoulder with his first gunshot, and then he—an iron-deficient monster with teeth roughly a dozen times sharper than any apex predator—completely ignored the persistent dribble of blood running down Akira's back beneath his shirt as they fought. He didn't even have the decency to look even _slightly_ aroused.

It's almost as if he couldn't scent it. Almost as if he couldn't hear or smell anything from Akira, like he had somehow made himself willfully anosmic and completely deaf to Akira's caramel-coated manipulations. That would explain why he'd been so fucking _loud_ the entire duel, like he couldn't hear the words that were coming out of his own mouth—

_Oh._

Suddenly Akira understands everything. 

He cracks his eyes open cautiously, takes inventory. The sword still rests against his neck. Goro's pinning him down, monologuing something about superiority and the inevitability of his victory. Akira notices one of his daggers has fallen barely within arm's reach, if he stretches. He's too exhausted to wield it properly. He'd need a bone-deep fuck for that, maybe a dozen, maybe an entire orgy. But what he _can_ do is—

He lifts his arm and slices it across the edge of the blade, gashing it open just above the wrist. Blood wells up instantly, a bright crimson stain against his skin that oozes from the divot of his wrist to dribble down the side of his forearm. " _Fuck_ ," he hisses, because it _hurts_ , and even his own inherent masochism apparently has its limits. Goro looks down at Akira's bloody arm, eyes narrowed and lips half-forming a question, but he really should have just beheaded him already because before he's able to speak Akira shoves his bleeding wrist into his mouth.

Goro's grip goes slack.

He drops the sword.

And then he bites down, _hard_ , on Akira's arm.

Things get a little fuzzy around the edges after that, as vampire venom is the equivalent of a sexually stimulating oxytocin bomb laced with horse tranquilizer. Akira feels the relaxant first—it sinks into his veins, smoothing his fatigue and stress away and leaving a wonderfully languid bone-deep lethargy in his place. He doesn't want to move, can't think of why he'd _ever_ want to move, because Goro's here on top of him, stroking feather-light fingers against his pulse point and cradling his bleeding wrist delicately in his hands like it's something precious _. Fuck_ , Akira loves him. He'd do anything for his praise, commit atrocities just to hear the sound of his voice. His cock's already completely hard—god, he wants Goro so bad it's a physical _ache_ —and his hips twitch, he tries to rock up against him but he can't find the friction—

 _Wait, no, that's just the venom_. Akira snaps back to himself with a herculean effort. Goro's still straddling him, draining him, lips and teeth pressed carefully against the skin of Akira's wrist as his tongue laps up the blood trickling from the wound. He's not entirely present either—Akira notes with a furious thrill of vindication that his pupils are blown, his eyes are wide and unfocused, and his cheeks are flushed a lurid shade of pink with borrowed blood _. Akira's_ blood. It's just like he thought—Goro's not immune to it at all.

But he's clever, fiendishly so. Vampires don't need to breathe, and Goro's carefully avoided all of Akira's attempted seductions involving blood and sweat and other more questionable body fluids alongside every form of skin-to-skin contact by simply wearing gloves and—more obviously, upon thoughtful reflection— _not taking a fucking breath since entering the warehouse._

"That's twice you've nearly bested me," Akira murmurs in delighted awe. Goro, seated over him with his fangs still sunk deep into Akira's arm, tilts his head quizzically in response. Akira sighs and enunciates loudly, "TAKE OUT THE EARPLUGS. WE'RE HAVING A CONVERSATION."

Something must have finally turned in Akira's favor, some critical mass of demon blood and endorphins and overall physical proximity, because Goro nods dazedly and complies without complaint. He sweeps back the hair hanging over his ears with his free hand, pulling out a set of tiny foam cylinders and flicking them away.

Another trick made obvious in retrospect by Goro's off-key tone of voice and his inability to respond to direct questions or modulate his volume. Akira would groan and roll his eyes if the stupid strategy hadn't almost genuinely fucking worked. He's underestimated him again, for the _second_ time, and paid the price in blood.

Then again…. the fact that Goro had consciously taken multiple underhanded measures to level the playing field is kind of hot, when he thinks about it. And if _Goro's_ playing dirty, then why can't Akira?

"Good boy," Akira purrs, low and enticing as he reaches up to stroke Goro's face. "You're smarter than all the others I've fucked, aren't you? You're stronger and far more capable than they were. Clever _and_ handsome."

Goro moans at that shamelessly—which, excellent, little weird-ass business-casual Dracula clearly has a praise kink, Akira definitely had his suspicions about it from their last time in the alleyway—but then he tightens his grip around Akira's forearm and bites down even harder. _Fuck_ , it feels good.

It's a well-known fact among demons that incubi and succubae can't get high off their own supply, a horrible design flaw locked into place due to some kind of ill-perceived 'evolutionary advantage' by nature tens of thousands of years ago. It's for this reason that seducing vampires is a rare treat that's always worth the risk—Akira can't say that his nerve endings have felt this warm and fuzzy since the day in the late nineteenth century that they stopped putting opium in the cough syrup.

The second dose of venom slams straight into his heart, and everything suddenly makes a lovely lucent sort of sense. He looks up at Goro dimly haloed above him, the left side of his face highlighted silver from the moonlight filtering in through a hole in the dilapidated ceiling. Goro stares back down. The blood on his lips is the same shade as his eyes.

 _He's beautiful,_ Akira thinks hazily, followed by, _Actually, it isn't so bad on the floor of the warehouse._

Akira could just stay like this forever, light-headed and completely pliant and sprawled out across the dirt, perfectly content to curl up against the rotting remains of the floorboards for the next few hours or centuries. He's warm and comfortable and _safe_ —he trusts Goro implicitly and unconditionally, with all the blood in his veins and whatever crude bubbling toxic sludge he was born with in place of an immortal soul.

He makes an attempt to card through Goro's soft hair with the numb fingers of his free arm, but he can't feel anything other than the icy tingle of pins and needles.

Then he can't feel anything at all.

In retrospect, he's much dizzier than he thought he was.

The blood loss hits him all at once—the walls and floor are wobbling like gelatin as they lurch in and out of focus. Akira's vision shorts out, fuzzes into bursts of light and darkness, and he groans. It's too much, it's _too much_ , it isn't enough and it will never be enough, there's a roaring in his ears and he's floating so far away from his body that he can't even twitch his half-open eyelids all the way shut.

It's disgraceful. He's going to die like this. Someone will eventually find him dead on the floor, desiccated into an ugly shriveled bone sack encased by skin leather, and none of them will ever know how hot he was.

 _Here lies Akira,_ he'd write for his epitaph. _He died as he lived: shamelessly, and beneath another man. Mors vincit omnia._

He dimly notes that he can't recall the meaning of the phrase anymore. A second later, he can't even remember the phrase itself. It's getting harder and harder to remain coherent—all of his thoughts are tumbling out of reach now, scudding away from each other in a hazy cotton-ball fog.

With the final dregs of his strength, Akira manages to close his eyes for the last time.

And then Goro kisses him.

Goro's lips are slick with blood and unnaturally cold. He tastes metallic against Akira's unresponsive tongue, a bright rush of copper that leaves him involuntarily salivating. Goro's cupping his face now as he kisses him, hands fisted in Akira's hair, and there's blood and drool and god knows what else dribbling out of the corner of Akira's mouth but his body latches onto the thin spider-silk string of latent sexual energy that the entirely one-sided makeout session is producing and it's somehow ridiculously _keeping him alive._

"I _hate_ you," says Goro breathlessly. There's the rumple of clothing being discarded, and then his mouth is back on Akira's in a furious rage. He bites into the soft skin of Akira's lip, letting the blood well up before licking it clean and sealing the wound shut. "Your blood is—" he lets out a little shudder and bites back a moan "—the worst thing I've ever tasted, and the side effects are fucking _atrocious."_ Akira feels hands at his hips unbuckling his belt; his pants are ripped off his legs entirely with preternatural strength. Goro's seething as he continues, "And here I am, doing your pathetic work for you. You're an annoyance, you're a fly, you're utterly beneath me—"

Akira musters up all of his available energy to deliver his artfully planned counterargument, which falls exceptionally short when all he's able to do is squeeze a barely audible exhale out of his bone-dry lungs.

Goro slaps him across the face with a snarl. "Shut _up_ ," he spits. "I'm going to ruin you. I'll mutilate you inch by inch until you _beg_ for my mercy." He makes a frustrated noise deep within his throat, and then he's kissing Akira again, biting him fervently on his shoulder, his neck, his lips, his wrists, leaving the wounds open this time so the blood trickles freely down Akira's skin. It seems counterproductive to his health at first, being used as an extremely low-pressure human sprinkler system, but whatever discordant sexual energy Akira's absorbing from Goro is more than enough to compensate for the loss.

So when Goro tugs Akira's underwear down past his knees and palms roughly over his still-hard cock, he's able to scrape together enough strength to let both eyes flutter open and moan like he means it. And fuck, he actually _does_ mean it, the friction is so good, Goro's hand is better than anything that's ever touched him, and Akira's dizzy and lightheaded and chock full of vampire tranquilizer. God, he needs Goro so much that he's going to completely lose his mind.

"I should just leave you here," Goro murmurs as he pulls his hand back. "I _want_ to leave you here. Nothing in this barren universe would make me more satisfied than turning around and walking out without looking back." He strokes Akira's cheek tenderly, soothingly. He's leaned in close enough that Akira can see how radiantly alive he is when flushed with someone else's blood, how his eyes glitter in the darkness and how wide his pupils have dilated. Goro gently wipes the dribble of blood from the corner of Akira's mouth—he brings his fingertip to his lips, sucks it clean, and holy _shit,_ Akira's going to die because he's lost nearly half the blood in his body and the remaining half seems to have all coalesced in his dick.

"You _could_ leave," he rasps, low and breathy. "But you're not going to get a better fuck than this one."

Goro stares at him with his lush, blown-out pupils. Color spikes high across his cheeks. He's thoroughly speechless, bewitched by the combination of Akira's blood and Akira's sheer proximity, and he nods unsteadily as he finally sinks back down to straddle him.

"Good," Akira hums in praise. "Just like that. You don't need to think about it, darling. I'll take care of you." He sits up, runs his fingers up Goro's inner thigh, brushes delicately against the hard line of his cock as he undoes the zipper of his pants. Goro moans as Akira pulls him out of his boxers—his fingers are pressed b against the ground so hard that that they're shaking, and when Akira rubs his thumb lightly over the tip, he damn near convulses, a full-body shudder like he's just been electrically shocked.

Akira presses his lips to the shell of Goro's ear in a chaste kiss and murmurs, low and smooth and coaxing, "You've already taken so much. Wouldn't you rather it be freely given?"

"I—" says Goro, and then he stops, blinks half-formed tears from his eyes, and shakes his head vehemently. "No," he manages to grit out through clenched teeth. "You're _not_ doing this. Not to me, not again. Not like this."

"So you don't want this," says Akira, withdrawing his hand and wiping it clean on his shirt. "You don't want me to fuck you. You're going to stand up, turn around, and then walk away without looking back. Is that right, dearest?"

"Yes," says Goro hoarsely, looking as if he's just been violently punched in the gut. "I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Then leave," Akira says with a disingenuous smile. "Nothing is stopping you from killing me or walking out."

He disentangles himself from Goro's legs and sits back calmly on his heels, examining the undersides of his fingernails and scraping them clean of dried blood. He doesn't look up when Goro reaches over to pick up his sword. He doesn't look up when Goro puts the sword back down minutes later with an explosively improvised soliloquy consisting only of swear words. He still doesn't look up when Goro buries his face in his hands and moans, agony and desire and pride and unbearable frustration rolled seamlessly into a single sound.

He _does_ look up when Goro, wound so tight that Akira can visibly hear the moment that his higher cognitive functions snap like a rubber band, says, "Get on your hands and knees."

His voice is seething with barely contained rage, but there's more to it than that. There's something pathetically yielding in the way he says it, an exquisite layer of regret shot through with broken undertones of unwilling affection.

 _Fuck_ , it's Akira's favorite flavor in the entire world. There's no other emotion that remotely comes close—he'd drink it in forever if he could, bathe in it, luxuriate in it. The fact that it's coming from Goro only makes it more electrifying, something truly rare and delightful to savor. He gets on his hands and knees without question—doesn't even complain when Goro shoves his face down into the dirt with one hand and shoves two fingers into him with the other.

Akira doesn't usually need prep. Mostly because it's a biological perk that comes with the job, but he's also never typically been one for his own foreplay. There's no real point to it when the sex is going to end disastrously for the other party far sooner than they realize. But Goro— _Goro,_ heady with intoxication and curling cold fingers up as he fucks into him, is nearly enough to send him over the edge right then and there.

"After this," says Goro—and goddammit, he's already pulled his fingers out, Akira feels the violent clench of emptiness and he hasn't even gotten fucked yet, horrible—"you are not going to get up. You are not going to move. You are not going to speak. If you attempt anything, I'll break your miserable body in so many places that you'll find the elusive mercy of death to be your only hope of escape. _Are we clear?_ "

"Yes," Akira moans breathlessly. At the same time Goro lines up and thrusts deep into him in one clean motion, powerful enough to force him to brace himself against the ground, and the rest of his sentence comes out as a pathetic, needy whine. " _Oh,_ " he gasps, and then, "fuck, just like that, _harder_ —"

Goro sets a brutal pace. He fucks Akira like it's his divine right, like he's genuinely still trying to kill him, like Akira's the last obstacle standing between him and every orgasm he's ever had in his life. He's ruthless, bruising Akira with how hard he's gripping him by the hips, and god, _fuck_ , he's in so deep that he'd be rearranging Akira's guts with his cock if Akira had any kind of guts to rearrange in the first place.

It's such a far cry from the last time they fucked that Akira would laugh if he were still capable of any kind of rational thought. All of his nerves are singing, pain drowned out by his own pleasure and everything that Goro is feeling magnified tenfold. He needs Goro to come inside him, needs it needs it _needs it,_ needs his energy, he's eternally starving and he's so close, he's scrabbling at the edges of his own orgasm with his fingernails and all it'll take is just the tiniest bit more—

And then Goro pulls out.

He fucking _pulls out_. Akira's left disoriented, empty, breath still held in anticipation for the tide to roll in when it's already come and gone and left him high and dry. He's boiling hot and cold and a billion different temperatures all at once, heart pumping fire and ice through his veins, and he was close, he was _so close_ , it feels instinctually wrong to come down on the wrong side of climax, like he's an actor on opening night who's been handed a script he's never seen before instead of the one he's been rehearsing for months. 

He turns back on reflex to look at Goro to check and make sure he hasn't keeled over dead yet; that would be a new low, even for Akira and his history of sucking out the souls of the people who fuck him. But Goro's perfectly fine, not a strand of immaculately coiffed hair out of place, doesn't have the decency to look even remotely corpselike, and as soon as Akira locks eyes with him he _smirks_ , and then he's got his own hand on his cock and he's jerking himself off, stupid bloodless bat-fanged coitus interruptus _bitch_ —

There's a sort of triumphant fury in Goro's expression when he comes moments later. He's radiant, seraphic, drawn taut and tense and lovely, and he spends himself on the dirty floor next to Akira with a bitten-off moan.

Not even _on_ Akira. On the _floor_.

As a succubus, it's the worst fucking insult Akira can comprehend. Goro refused to involve Akira in his orgasm intentionally, _spitefully_ —first by pulling out before Akira was able to come, and then by refusing to come inside Akira or on his face or thighs or stomach or anywhere else on his perfectly willing and capable body. So what kind of energy, exactly, is Akira supposed to drain from Goro? His huge pile of psychological issues?

At least the previous time in the alleyway he was courteous enough to feed Goro before he tried to eat him alive. Goro apparently just wants Akira to fucking starve.

God, he's exhausted. This must be what Goro felt like after their last fuck, when Akira sucked out as much of him as he could and dumped him like garbage on the back steps of some random building.

When he looks up, Goro's staring down at him. It could be the dim lighting of the warehouse causing his eyes to play tricks on him, but Akira swears he sees the corner of Goro's mouth twist down in something similar to regret.

"We're finished here," he says quietly. His voice is hoarse, undercut with an emotion that's the opposite of the furious, self-righteous vindication Akira was expecting.

Akira nods mutely in response. He watches Goro put his pants back on, tuck in his shirt and straighten his jacket. He watches him collect his gun and his stupid jagged sword.

And then, finally, he watches him leave.

Akira lets out the breath he didn't even know he was holding in a long, shaky exhale. He sits there, still on the floor, in silence.

He doesn't get himself off. He's not in the mood anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you're petting your cat and you're like "oh kitty you're so cute" and then your cat hawks up a nasty hairball out nowhere. This is actually a deeply complex literary metaphor—the people who follow my AO3 are the cat owners, while I am the cat and this wildly unasked for work of literature is the hairball.
> 
> [meow](https://twitter.com/ShadowCathedraI)


End file.
